


Days of Future Past

by athersgeo



Category: The Dalemark Quartet - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, time travel AU - or is it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-15 23:23:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 8,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13041672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athersgeo/pseuds/athersgeo
Summary: Sometimes fate needs a nudge...for eighteen year old Navis, this is that nudge.





	1. Unhitched

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meh_guh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meh_guh/gifts).



> Characters are not mine but all mistakes are.

Navis

"All Hadd needed was an heir and a spare. Why'd he bother having Navis?" 

The speaker was openly scornful and dismissive. A state that would have swiftly changed had they realised that the very person they were disparaging was seated at the desk in the writing nook of the library. Harchad would have had the speaker taken away for questioning. Harl would skip the questioning and just go straight to the execution. Navis smiled thinly to himself and remained quiet. After all, the speaker – probably an incautious servant – was merely giving voice to a thought that had, more than once, circled through Navis' own thoughts.

He supposed his father had been hoping for a daughter, but it did beg the question as to why Hadd hadn't quickly disposed of him as a baby.

"I should have got rid of you when I had the chance," the old man had so frequently snarled whenever Navis had done something to raise his father's ire as a child. 

Like the day he'd rescued the kittens from being drowned. Or the day he'd taken bread from his own plate and given it to the serving boy whose stomach had growled so loudly. Like the day he'd signed up as a private in the militia under an assumed name. 

He had hoped leaving and joining the militia would please his father but – of course – his father had been furious. 

"My son! A private!" Hadd had spluttered, his face turning an apoplectic shade of red. "I will not stand for such a disgrace. As if a whelp, a—a pansy as you could even begin to handle life as a soldier!" The earl had then proceeded to spend a good twenty minutes elucidating Navis' every failing and character defect.

Navis wryly reflected that it had probably been one of his father's more impressive rants – both for its volume and for its creative invective. It also sealed in him a desire to leave the palace for good. It wasn't as if his life was going to amount to much if he stayed. Just more abuse and humiliation and, if he was lucky, a political marriage.

Maybe he should make his way north. Someone like the new earl at Hannart would probably have an appreciation for a little southern efficiency – particularly if the rumours of a potential uprising were even remotely accurate. Hadd had dismissed them as poppycock, naturally, but Navis was inclined to think there might be some truth to them. He knew that the south was ripe for an uprising – unlike either of his brothers or his father, he was not deaf to the discontent amongst the people in Holand. He was also aware that there were similar troubles all across the south to varying degrees. All it would take would be a simple push.

And Hannart seemed the most likely person to provide the impetus.

Navis nodded to himself. Hannart would be his destination, largely because Keril seemed, from the rumours that had reached this far south, a good man. That it would absolutely infuriate his father, well, that would just be a bonus.

With so much decided, Navis pushed to his feet.

And then the world tilted, swayed and faded.


	2. The Weaver

Cennoreth

The first day of bright sunlight in nearly a week was a welcome change as far as Cennoreth was concerned. With the glowing light streaming in through her window, she could see her weaving properly and admire the strange patterns she'd created. There were blues and reds, rusty oranges and bright yellows all woven together in a riotous display and for a moment, she smiled.

Then her eyes fell on the last couple of rows, woven only the evening before. There, towards the end of them, was a familiar snarl of yarn in a shade of mossy green that she hadn't used in—

"Oh! Oh dear," she muttered. "And Duck's not here to warn."

For a moment, she hesitated over what to do. Then she sighed and shook her head. As if it was even really a question! She took up her seat at the loom and picked up the shuttle. She would continue to weave and hope that things would shake out. It was all she could do from her Dropthwaite cottage.


	3. Arriving

Navis

One minute he was standing up from the desk, the next it felt as if there were hundreds of unseen hands tugging at him, dragging him this way and that. The world wheeled around him in a blur of colour and noise. He glimpsed people and places, but nothing stayed for long enough in his sight for him to recognise anything beyond a sense of familiarity. Then the blur turned to fog. And then it all stopped.

From what he could smell, it seemed like the travelling had deposited him somewhere on the coast. From what Navis could hear, though, it was nowhere he knew. There were gulls, of course, crying and shrieking for food. But there was also an almost constant rumble that didn't fit. Then there was a loud and outraged hooting and the fog finally lifted from his vision in time to see a large metal beast bearing down upon him.

Reflexively, Navis dived out of its path and found himself safety on something that vaguely resembled the quayside of Holand's harbour. But anything less like that busy, smelly, port he felt hard to imagine. True, it was a quayside, but the rows and rows of boats moored up to jetties and buoys weren't working craft. They were pleasure boats. Dinky little yachts and skiffs, for the most part, with the odd grander vessel mixed in; none of them were fishing trawlers and certainly none were big merchant ships.

In fact, the display reminded him less of Holand's waterfront than it did the Flate Pool where the rich had housed their vessels.

"What is this place?" Navis wondered.

But the answer came to him a moment later as the overall shape of the harbour sank into his confusion: this was Holand. Somehow.

He was distracted from his confusion by his clothes. Until this moment, he'd been wearing a standard set of court clothes with all its shiny buttons and starchy fabric, but now he could feel it changing. The stiff trousers changed colour from black to blue and became softer without losing any of their toughness in a manner reminiscent of sail cloth. The dark green vest also shifted colour, to brown, grew full length sleeves, and became an unmistakably leather jacket. The starched linen shirt smoothed and became a cotton garment of a far finer weave than anything he was familiar with, though it at least had the decency to remain the same colour as before. Then the shoes with their fashionable buckles and hard soles shifted from black leather to a white, supple material that wasn't like anything Navis could name and became so comfortable that he actually found himself laughing in delight.

He didn't know what was going on, how he'd got here or even truly where and when here was, but at least he was comfortable.

And then he heard a voice, tinged with the Holander accent, muttering a standard Holander curse: "Oh, Flaming Ammet, now what?"


	4. The Weaver

Cennoreth

The Weaver glared at her weaving. While the snarl of green had begun to smooth out into more normal weaving, the colour itself was not going away. It shouldn't have been there in the first place; it certainly shouldn't be becoming a regular part of the pattern.

"Unless Grandfather is up to something," she muttered, a frown creasing her brow.

That was the only thing that made sense. The last time this had happened, it had been as a result of needing to stop Kankredin, but as far as Cennoreth knew, between then and now, much of Kankredin's evil had been mopped up. Mitt Alhammittsson had stuck to his vow there, and since the Battle of the Tomb, she knew Duck had been helping him. (She thought there was rather more to that day in Kernsburgh than either Mitt or Duck were saying, and that whatever it was, it was something Duck was shamed by.)

So if it wasn't Kankredin, what was her grandfather up to?

All the while she'd been pondering the matter, her fingers had been working their magic, sending the shuttle back and forth across the weaving. Cennoreth now looked down and for the first time since that green snarl had appeared, she smiled. Now twinning with the green was a bright gold colour and while she couldn't always pick out who the colours represented, that particular colour had only ever been associated with one person in her weaving: Mitt Alhammittsson.

If he was with whoever the green represented, things were starting to look up.


	5. Now You're Here...

Navis

Navis studied the speaker, a youth dressed just as strangely as Navis himself now was, for a long moment. There was a faint air of familiarity to the youth that he couldn't quite pin down and that was, at the same time, utterly ridiculous. Why should he recognise someone in this strange place?

Meanwhile the youth had continued to appeal to Old Ammet and others of the Undying in an oddly grumpy sort of tone.

"Is there a problem?" Navis was finally moved to ask.

The youth snorted and shook his head ruefully. "Depends on your point of view. I was having a perfectly ordinary sort of day and then you appeared."

"I appeared?" Navis echoed.

"One moment you were…well, wherever you were supposed to be. The next, you were standing in front of an oncoming delivery truck, right in front of me. Because The One or Old Ammet or Libby Beer or someone has a twisted sense of amusement." The youth paused, apparently recognising that his voice was rising with either anger or frustration, then said quieter, "You could have been killed and something tells me that would have been very bad."

So much of that statement was nonsense as far as Navis was concerned so he latched on to the one part that did make sense: "You know I'm not supposed to be here?"

The youth blew out a sigh and glanced about, as if checking for anyone paying attention to them. Surprisingly, so far as Navis was concerned, none of the other passers by were even so much as giving them a glance. That really wasn't much like the Holand he knew. There, everyone paid attention to what was going on – it might just save your life.

In a much quieter voice, the youth said, "You've travelled in time. I'm not sure exactly how far, but it has to be at least two hundred and fifty years."

"Then, this _is_ Holand?"

"It's not much like the one you remember, I know, but yes. This is Holand."

Navis stared at the young man for a few moments, considering what had just been said. His words would have been unbelievable, except for the way Navis had felt his clothing change. And the way that this both was and wasn't the Holand waterfront he recognised. And the fact that the youth spoke sincerely. Admittedly, Harchad could speak a lie with more sincerity than most people told the truth, but having grown up with his older brother had given Navis no mean skill at sifting truth from falsehood.

"I know it sounds mad," the youth was continuing. "But—"

"On the contrary, it makes perfect sense." Navis frowned. "At least from one point of view."

The youth did a double take. "You believe me? Of course you believe me." Then he muttered something that Navis didn't quite hear but that sounded somewhat like, "You're Navis all right."

He wondered about that, but decided to leave it alone for now. There were more pressing questions. "What doesn't make sense is that you know this so certainly."

The youth heaved a sigh. "That's—let's just say that I have some experience of the Greater Undying and their methods."

Navis evaluated that statement. There was clearly so much more to it than the youth was currently saying, but whatever the ultimate truth behind it, there was a definite sense the youth genuinely did know. "You have…travelled?"

"Once or twice. Never for long." The youth's brow furrowed. "But I know someone who has. I think we need to get to Kernsburgh."

"Kernsburgh?"

"That's where she is," said the youth as though this was obvious.

"But Kernsburgh—" Navis stopped. "It's not as I know of it, is it?"

Oddly, the youth laughed. "No, it's not." He thrust out a hand. "My name's Mitt, by the way."

"Navis," said Navis accepting the offered hand. "Though I think you already know that."

Mitt looked mildly sheepish. "Like I said: I have some experience."

That was clearly all Mitt was going to say on the subject for now and for a moment, Navis debated pressing for more information. He decided that patience was a better course of action. He suspected that sooner or later he would hear more, and if he didn't, well that would be the time to push for further explanations.

In the meantime, Mitt had gestured with his hand, indicating that they should walk along the quayside and had set a fairly brisk pace.

"So how do we reach Kernsburgh?" Navis asked, eyeing the metal monstrosities still roaring by. "With one of—what did you call it? A delivery van?"

Mitt snorted with amusement. "Vans are for goods – motorised, horseless carts. The smaller ones are called cars – personal horseless carts."

"Horseless. Carts." Navis turned the phrase over in his mind and shook his head. The concept sounded so outlandish, even though he could see with his own eyes the truth of it. "Everyone can have one? They're not just for the Earl?"

"Everyone can have one, if they want one."

"Interesting." Clearly the current Earl of Holand was a lot less strict than Hadd – though that wasn't saying much. "So do we use one?"

Mitt shook his head and waved his hand at the rather ornate building they were heading directly towards. Its impressive frontage was built of stone with columns of ironwork painted cream with dark green highlights. It reminded Navis a little of the palace, but the great roof he could just see arching up behind the stonework suggested the building was long and thin and not at all palace-like.

"Even now the road north from Holand isn't that good. The train will be faster."

"Train?"

Mitt cursed. "Uh, it's a bit like a car, but bigger and it runs on rails."

That sounded even more outlandish to Navis' ears. A few minutes later as Mitt shepherded him into the building, he discovered that it looked outlandish, too. The train appeared to be a long cylinder painted the same green as all the ironwork. It was making the same kind of noise as the vans and cars outside but was currently not moving.

"Is this safe?" Navis found himself enquiring, even as Mitt ushered him into the cylinder through the wide open doors.

"Perfectly."

"Hm." Navis remained dubious.

Mitt pulled a small device from his pocket, pressed it a couple of times and then held it up to his ear. Before Navis could ask, Mitt started speaking: "Sorry to call you...change of plans...later today...just caught it – can you meet us?...great; see you then."

"What—" Navis began.

"It's called a mobile phone," said Mitt, not even allowing the question to finish. "Everyone has one, more or less. They allow you to communicate with people far away. In this case, Kernsburgh."

"Remarkable." And that was, Navis felt, an understatement of significant proportions. This whole future seemed to have remarkable features stacked up upon remarkable features. "And you say I've only travelled two hundred and fifty years?"

Mitt smiled faintly. "They were a pretty busy two hundred and fifty years."

At that moment, a piercing sound cut through the air, making Navis start. "What on earth—"

"It's just the warning that the doors are about to close," said Mitt. "We'll be off—in fact, there we go."

That last was almost unnecessary as Navis felt the train begin to move smoothly away. He sat back in his seat and marvelled at the concept, vaguely wondering what his father would make of it all. Then he felt his stomach turn as he realised just what Hadd would use such technology for. The only thing that ever stopped Hadd from following up is quarrels was the distance his army would have to march. This would make that a concern of the past.

As if sensing his disquiet, Mitt was moved to comment, "Earl Hadd never had access to the railway network – it was built...later."

The hesitancy to Mitt's words told Navis that there was more to that – like much of what Mitt had had to say so far. Still, it did allow Navis to relax.

"It will take about three hours to reach Kernsburgh," said Mitt. "We were in luck, this is one of the express trains – it only makes two stops between Holand and Kernsburgh."

Once more, most of what Mitt said was largely incomprehensible. Navis simply opted to nod rather than ask for clarification that might just be more confusing. He'd understood the main part: a journey, that in his day would have taken days, would take less than half a day.

Incredible.

Navis thought he could grow to rather like this future.


	6. The Weaver

Cennoreth

The light had turned to the orange glow of late afternoon when Cennoreth heard the door of her cottage open. For half a moment, she thought it might just be Mitt with the interloper, but then she caught the echoes of a joyful whistle.

"Duck! You're here!"

For the first time since she'd picked up her shuttles that morning, Cennoreth dropped them and turned in time to see her brother enter. He looked vaguely perplexed and rather more suspicious.

"I did tell you I'd be here at the end of the month," he said warily.

Cennoreth gave her brother a fond if slightly exasperated look. "I know you think I don't track time well here, but I'm well aware you were due soon." She shook her head. "I thought you might have picked up you were needed elsewhere."

"Elsewhere?" Duck frowned. "You're not making sense."

"Mitt hasn't called you?"

"Should he have?"

Cennoreth sighed with rather more exasperation and gestured to her weaving. "Here; look."

It was Duck's turn to make an exasperated sigh. "You know I can't see anything much in your—what is that green?"

"Ha! You see it straight away." Cennoreth folded her arms across her chest. "It's just as when Maewen became mixed up in the search for the crown." Politely, she ignored Duck's wince at the reminder. "The difference is that this colour is old. I remember the trouble I had creating the dye for it and vowed I'd never use it again."

Duck gave her a penetrating look. "Do you remember when that would have been?"

"That's just it, I'm not entirely sure," she admitted. "But I think it must be at least around the time of the search for the crown."

"Hmm." Duck pursed his lips and a line puckered between his eyebrows. "I wonder..." He reached out and just barely grazed his finger tips over the green. Then his eyes went wide. "Oh, my!"

"You can tell who it is?" Cennoreth asked.

"Navis Haddsson," said Duck. "But not the Navis I met. Younger. Barely full grown."

"Why ever would Grandfather have pulled him here?"

"I don't know," Duck admitted. "Do you know where he and Mitt are?"

"Heading for Kernsburgh, I'd think. From the feel of one of my shuttles, Maewen's red is on there, ready for me to use."

"And she's in Kernsburgh?"

Cennoreth favoured Duck with a very long and pointed look. "Don't you and Mitt ever speak to one another? Of course she's in Kernsburgh. She's studying at the university there."

Duck grimaced. "I do pay attention."

Cennoreth snorted.

"I do."

"Well, I may believe you but I doubt many others would. Now, shouldn't you be going?"

"Going? I just got here."

"And they're going to need your help in Kernsburgh – or do you know of another way for Navis to be returned to his correct place in time?"

"Grandfather—"

"Grandfather might intervene when absolutely necessary but you know he likes people to handle their own troubles when they can. And with your help..."

Duck heaved a sign. "All right; all right." He turned for the door. "I'll let you know what I find."


	7. Awkward

Maewen

Maewen paced the concourse just beyond the barriers, waiting impatiently for the train.

In the years since her first summer here in Kernsburgh, she'd grown to recognise the different tones Mitt could use. There was his normal one – the one that she'd first heard on the Green Roads when she'd been forced into the role of Noreth. There was the icy cold one that came out when something had made him truly angry (like the occasion he'd found her being pestered by a lecherous tourist from Haligland). There was commanding one that reminded her that for some seventy or so years he'd been the ruler of Dalemark who'd had to knit the two halves of the country together. There was the entirely too bright, false one he used when he was trying to avoid telling her something – she'd heard that one on the Green Roads, too, come to think. And then there was the one he'd used in his phone call: the hesitant, slightly apprehensive tone that told her something serious and possibly dangerous had come up.

The unusual aspect was that he'd asked her to meet the train. Normally, when that tone made an appearance in their conversation, Mitt did everything he could to keep her out of it (at least until her help became essential – which happened more often than Maewen would have expected). This time, she sensed he was including her from the beginning, which probably meant it wasn't dangerous as such – but what on earth could be so serious as to need her immediate attention she couldn't begin to guess at. 

At this point in her musings, the express train from Holand finally pulled into the grand surroundings of Kernsburgh station. Now she would get some answers.

She had to adjust her position so as to avoid being run over by the rush of passengers disembarking, and then out of the mêlée, Mitt appeared. His lanky height made him unmissable in the crowd and Maewen opened her mouth to call a "hallo" to him.

Then she recognised the person tailing on behind Mitt and her jaw hinged open with surprise. Instead of a greeting, she began, "Is that—"

Mitt offered her a rueful smile. "Yes it is."

"Huh."

Navis coughed politely. "Do I presume this is the person you were arranging to meet?"

Mitt nodded. "This is Maewen Singer. Maewen, Navis."

Maewen squirmed as Navis gave her an assessing glare. That he was much younger than she remembered didn't lessen the strength of his stare.

"You're a Singer?"

"By name only – I can't carry a tune in a wooden bucket."

Navis chuckled at that.

"She does have a Singer's way with words, though," said Mitt. "Is there somewhere over at the palace we can all talk?" he added.

Maewen glanced at her watch. "Dad's giving a talk tonight about pre-historic Dalemark. The apartment should be empty until quite late."

"That should do."

"But, Mitt—" Maewen trailed off, not really knowing how to point out that taking Navis to the palace – even a much younger version than the one chronicled in the portraiture – was risky to say the least. Someone was bound to recognise him and ask questions.

Questions that she strongly suspected none of them particularly wanted to answer.

"I know." Mitt grimaced. "But do you have a better idea?"

And there it was. Maewen did have a student abode of course, but it was a single room in a house full of other students, most of whom were studying history. If Navis was likely to be recognised in the palace, he was more so in a house full of history students. Mitt's own house, out on the Shield of Oreth, would have been better but much harder to get to.

Maewen sighed. "No I don't."

"Palace?" Navis echoed. "There is a king once more?"

"Queen, currently," said Maewen, answering automatically.

"And, Dalemark is united?"

Maewen glanced at Mitt. "Oh, definitely yes."

"A lot must have happened, then."

"It was a busy two hundred and fifty years," said Mitt, using the false, bright tone. 

Maewen snorted with badly muffled giggles. For once, she knew exactly what Mitt didn't want to discuss. She just hoped young Navis was a little less acute than his older counterpart had been. "This way," she said. "It's not far."

The three of them made their way out of the railway station and into the late afternoon sunlight. She was aware of Navis craning his neck to stare all around at the bustle of Kernsburgh as they went, but what he thought of it all she couldn't begin to guess. Across the road to the waystone, then on, up one of the main boulevards, past all the expensive boutiques and then in through the palace gates.

The walk hadn't changed since her first visit, even if the palace had – thanks to Kankredin and The Earth Shaker. Where once King Amil's ludicrous tomb had stood was now a newly planted herbal garden, showcasing all the traditional medicinal herbs of Dalemark.

Mitt eyed that with some amusement. "Looks like a good crop of mint over there," he said.

"Whatever you do, do not mention mint to my father," Maewen retorted. "It's got everywhere."

"That is what mint does, I believe," Navis observed, speaking for the first time since they'd left the station. "Your father works here?" he added.

"He's the head curator of the palace museum," Maewen explained. "He has an apartment in the top of the palace."

"The queen doesn't reside here?"

Maewen shook her head. "She has a palace in the south – it suits her better these days."

"Oh?"

"She's nearly one hundred," said Mitt. Maewen doubted Navis would detect the thread of pride in his voice, but she could hear it and it made her smile. "Most of the day-to-day running of the country is done by her ministers and the crown prince."

"And he also lives in the south?"

"Hannart," said Maewen. "Though he comes here more often than his mother. It's funny," she added, deliberately not glancing in Mitt's direction, "but when I first came to Kernsburgh about ten years ago, the crown prince and the queen weren't really on speaking terms, but something happened that summer that helped them repair their relationship." Maewen had never been sure how much of that repair was due to the tomb explosion and how much had been the crown prince's great grandfather knocking some general sense into him. "He's a nice man and he'll be a good king, one day."

At that point, they reached the great doors into the palace. At this time of day, the last of the coachloads of tourists had gone and only a handful of straggling students remained. It meant that it was easier to slip in, unnoticed. Unfortunately, the route up to the apartment was through the main picture gallery with its large painting of the Duke of Kernsburgh. Maewen tried to hurry them through, hoping that Navis wouldn't notice the painting, but at the soft gasp from the younger man, she knew that was a hope in vain.

"Who—is that me?" he asked in a hushed tone of voice, staring at the likeness.

"It's complicated," said Mitt, using that bright tone once more. "We should—"

"Mitt! Maewen said you were away all week."

Maewen felt her heart drop at the voice. This was the worst of all worlds: with Navis staring at the portrait, this was, naturally, the moment her father – who was supposed to be giving a talk any moment now – chose to enter the gallery. And of course, he'd recognised Mitt – because Mitt's lanky height and bony shoulders were unmissable.

"Mr Singer, I had a change of plans," said Mitt, still using that bright tone.

Maewen saw her father frown. He might not be quite as adroit at spotting Mitt's moods, as she was, but he'd clearly worked out what that particular tone meant. Then her father's gaze fell on Navis. "Who's your friend?"

Maewen saw the next moments unfold in slow motion. Navis tore his gaze away from the painting and turned. Her father took in Navis' features. What he must have seen, with Navis standing just to the right of the portrait of the Duke of Kernsburgh, she couldn't begin to guess, but from the paling of her father's face, it must have been quite a sight.

"He's the—you're the—he—Maewen?" And with that, her father's knees gave out and he collapsed to the floor in a dead faint.

"Oh, oh **fiddlesticks**!" Maewen muttered.

"Well, this is rather awkward," said Mitt brightly.

Maewen snorted. Awkward wasn't the word for it.


	8. Precious Answers

Navis

To say Navis was confused was to put it mildly. 

Somehow they were now up in the Singer's apartment at the top of the palace. Navis still wasn't entirely sure how they'd all made it up the stairs. Maewen's father had, fortunately, come to almost immediately after landing on the floor in the gallery, but he'd been groggy and confused, leading to Mitt needing to support him up the narrow stairs. Maewen had started to follow on and then had exclaimed "Fiddlesticks!" again and hastily disappeared.

She reappeared only as Mitt was helping her father down onto a long, comfortable looking couch. All she'd said was, "Spoke to one of dad's ladies – the talk's postponed." Navis had no idea what that meant but as it didn't appear to relate to either him or his situation, he decided he was probably better off not asking.

So now Maewen's father was lying on the couch, conscious but mumbling something about "the Duke of Kernsburgh!" while Mitt and Maewen were huddled together on the far side of the room having a hushed and rather heated conversation. 

Navis cleared his throat. "I don't suppose," he began, "anyone would care to explain?"

"Yes," said Maewen's father. "An explanation would be nice."

Navis' quick ears picked up Mitt muttering yet another imprecation towards Libby Beer, only to visibly receive an elbow to the stomach from Maewen.

"It's quite a complicated story," she offered.

"Maewen, the Duke of Kernsburgh is standing in my sitting room," said her father. "The least of what it should be is complicated."

"Who is this Duke of Kernsburgh?" Navis demanded. "There is—" He stopped. "Or is there?"

"When Dalemark was united," said Mitt slowly, "the new king didn't entirely trust the old Earls to, ah, behave themselves. So he created a new position – the Duke of Kernsburgh – and gave the position to his most trusted, honest and reliable associate."

"You," put in Maewen. "Or at least, it will be you."

"In thirty or so years," said Mitt.

Navis stared rather blankly at this. "Me? I'm the third son of an Earl – I'm even less relevant to the world than the average Holand fisherman."

Maewen choked and turned red with what sounded suspiciously like badly suppressed giggles. Navis could see nothing amusing about what he'd said.

Mitt glared at Maewen. "Even if that's true for you at the moment, you do become important. Trust me, you'll find your place."

Navis could hear the sincerity and certainty in Mitt's voice again. It was more disconcerting this time. It clearly showed that Mitt (and Maewen and, presumably, Maewen's father) knew vastly more about him than Navis himself did. Part of him was deeply tempted to know what they knew. Part of him was terrified to ask, in case it turned out such a position of power as that of the Duke of Kernsburgh clearly would be had warped him into a person even worse than his father.

"You don't turn out like Earl Hadd," said Mitt, "if that's what you're worrying about. And definitely not like your brother."

Navis blinked. "Are you some sort of mage to know what I'm thinking?"

"It's what I'd be wondering, if I were you."

"Why?"

"Mitt's quite the history student," said Maewen's father. "With a real passion for the unification period of Dalemark's history."

Oddly, that made Maewen giggle again, though again Navis failed to see the humour. Mitt rolled his eyes.

Navis opened his mouth to ask another question, only to be interrupted by a polite knock on the apartment's front door.

Maewen frowned. "Who on earth would that be? It can't be any of the museum staff – they know dad's not very well." She turned and went to answer the door.

"I'm perfectly fine," muttered her father somewhat huffily. "Now I've got over the shock. Though," he added, "I'm still a little confused as to precisely how the would-be Duke of Kernsburgh is standing in my sitting room."

There was a loud exclamation from Maewen. Navis wasn't sure if it was with delight or displeasure. From Mitt's sudden and deepening frown, he guessed that whatever the cause, she wasn't terribly pleased. A moment later, as they heard the door shut, a new arrival entered the sitting room: a tall man with short fair hair and a rangy build. Something about him spoke of a power that intimidated Navis.

"Duck!" exclaimed Mitt.

At the same time, Maewen's father exclaimed, "Wend?"

And Maewen offered, "Mage Mallard."

Navis stared. "Who?"

The tall man shrugged. "When you live a long life, you tend to stack up a few names."

Then the name that Maewen had used caught up with Navis. "Mage Mallard? You can't possibly be—"

"Can't possibly be a character from the old stories?" the tall man enquired. "This from the man two hundred and fifty years out of time."

Navis supposed he deserved that. "But still!"

At that, the tall man laughed. 

"So what should I call you?" Navis asked.

"Wend was the name I used last time I was here – that will do, I think."

Navis nodded and would have said more but Maewen's father jumped in at that moment.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, even as Mitt was saying, "About that two hundred and fifty years."

"In order: I'm here to help, and we think it's The One's doing."

To Navis' way of thinking, that answered nothing, although Mitt at least seemed to make sense of it to judge by the way he nodded.

Maewen's father frowned. "We? Who is we? And where did you go? I almost thought you'd been killed when the tomb exploded and—" 

"Dad!" Maewen interjected. "We can talk about that later."

Maewen's father subsided with a frown. 

"We, meaning my sister and I," said Wend. "She thought you," and he inclined his head in Mitt's direction, "might need some help."

"She'd be right," said Mitt. "I'd assumed this was The One's doing, but what none of us know is why."

Wend's amused expression shifted to something more serious at that. "Knowing Grandfather, the only reason he would meddle like this is to make certain that something of importance was learned." 

"But what?" Maewen appealed.

To Navis' surprise, an answer to that question came from Maewen's father. "Surely that's obvious: the one thing Navis needs to learn above all else is how to be the man the Duke of Kernsburgh was. It's clear he can't have learned that from Earl Hadd – no offence," he added, in Navis' direction.

"None taken, I assure you."

"So he must have learned it from somewhere else."

Wend, Mitt and Maewen exchanged glances before Wend nodded. "That makes sense. Perhaps, Mr Singer, we could take a tour of the museum tomorrow morning, before it opens?"

"Splendid idea," said Maewen's father. "Perhaps things will be clearer come the morning."

Navis devoutly hoped that would be the case.


	9. The Weaver

Cennoreth

The next morning dawned almost as sunny as the day before. Cennoreth was pleased to see that no further snarls had made themselves visible in her weaving overnight. She also noted with a smile that one of her shuttles had now become the bright turquoise colour she knew represented her brother. 

Most people would have been alarmed at weaving that almost had a life of its own, but Cennoreth was used to it. From the moment her grandfather had urged her to keep weaving, it had been this way – and that had been many more years ago than she really cared to consider.

Easing down at her seat, she picked up her shuttles and began to weave the story unfolding in Kernsburgh. Of Mitt, of Navis Haddsson, of Maewen and Duck. There was another colour in there, too – a darker, browner version of Maewen's colour. Presumably that belonged to Maewen's father. What must he be thinking of all this, she wondered.

Perhaps, once this was over, Maewen would come to Dropthwaite for a visit.


	10. Public History

Navis

If Navis had held any thoughts that he might wake up and find himself back in his own bed after a night's sleep, he was sadly mistaken. He woke and found himself still in the apartment in the top of the Kernsburgh palace. 

There was a quickly made breakfast – coffee proved to be intriguing but ultimately not to his taste – and then it was down into the palace for the tour Wend had proposed.

Maewen's father proved to be a very able and informative guide to both the palace and the history of Dalemark in the last two hundred and fifty years. Some aspects of it, particularly the detail of technology, were hard to grasp – as if there was some external force preventing the information on how things worked and what things did from sticking in more than a superficial form. Even cars, vans and trains remained stubbornly vague.

Navis decided that was as well. He'd never had a desire to become any kind of inventor and the more he heard about the lead up to the last civil war the more he was certain that this sort of advancement should never, ever end up in the hands of his father.

The rest of it, however, was clear and sharp. Each new artefact provided another piece of the story, starting with a failed uprising led by the Earl of Hannart. By the dates given, that sounded like it happened not all that long after Navis' departure from that time. People had died by their hundreds and it had been an all round disaster – not least for the increased enmity it generated. The thought did cross his mind that it might have gone differently had he gone through with his idea of defecting to Hannart, but Navis was was realist enough to know that it was incredibly doubtful one untrained man would have made any real difference.

Incredibly, not more than thirty years after that there'd been a second uprising, led by a young king called Amil. Navis noted that Mitt and Maewen both had a tendency to gloss over that part of the story, which amused Wend considerably. Fortunately, Maewen's father was more voluble, but his explanations lacked the certainty that both Maewen and Mitt's voices carried. Which was decidedly odd, given that Navis assumed they'd all learned the information from the same sources.

They finished up back in the gallery in front of that disconcerting portrait, where Maewen's father gave a very neat run down of the Duke's career. Navis still couldn't entirely believe that he could become the competent, ruthless individual King Amil had relied on to control rebellious earls. And from Mitt's expression, which looked as if he was consciously reminding himself to bite his lip, the story Maewen's father was telling didn't tell nearly the half of it.

Still, with the tour now complete, Navis half wondered if he was going to immediately vanish from the palace. There was a pregnant pause, and when nothing happened, he realised that was what everyone else had been expecting, too. There was a sense of deflation and a little frustration too.

Maewen's father glanced at his wrist. "The museum will be opening shortly. I suggest we go back upstairs for any further discussion."

Navis glanced at the portrait. No, he definitely didn't want to be in the gallery when other people started arriving. That would be as awkward as the evening before.

Or perhaps more so.

He happily trailed on at the end of the line back up to the apartment.

"So, that's the history," said Maewen's father as they all settled back in the sitting room of the apartment. "What do we do now?"

Wend cleared his throat. "That's not entirely all the history, is it Mitt?"

Navis gave Mitt an intrigued look. Wend was giving voice to the suspicion Navis had already formed. From Mitt's expression, it appeared to be the very last thing he wanted to discuss.

"Is it, Mitt?" Wend repeated, pointedly. "I think we owe Navis this."

Mitt scowled. "You would."

"Owe me what?" Navis asked.

It was left to Maewen, who seemed to know what Wend and Mitt were alluding to, to say, "The history that was left out of the written accounts."


	11. Private Stories

Mitt

"Never rely on things being reasonable," Mitt sighed. He felt Maewen give his hand a discreet squeeze and he continued, "They're right, that isn't anything like the whole story."

Navis looked quizzical.

"How can it not be the whole story?" Maewen's father asked. "It's what all the history books say."

"The books lie," said Maewen. "Because King Amil made sure they lied."

"And how do you know that?"

"Because..." Mitt hesitated for a beat. "Because King Amil is standing right here."

"You're delusional," said Maewen's father, but Mitt had the impression that he was rather less certain of that than he'd like.

Navis, meanwhile was nodding slowly. "You're of the Undying," he said.

"But not like Osfameron here," said Mitt, jerking a thumb in Wend's direction. "I took Hern's advice and made sure of that."

"This is delusional," muttered Maewen's father, his voice even more uncertain than before.

"It's not, dad," said Maewen. "It's the truth."

"Perhaps," said Wend diffidently, "you should start at the beginning."

"Which beginning?" Mitt retorted. "There's at least three."

"How can there be three beginnings?" Navis asked.

Mitt ticked things off on his fingers. "There's my childhood in Holand; there's Keril and the Countess demanding I murder Noreth; there's joining with Tannoreth's quest."

"Noreth? Tannoreth?" Maewen's father managed to shelve his misgiving at the two names.

"Noreth was my daughter," said Wend.

"It was known she would ride for the crown the summer of her eigtheenth year," said Mitt. "Keril and some of the other nobles in the north didn't want that. They thought she would fail and cause a new war between the north and the south. For that matter, the earls in the south didn't want it either."

"Henda of Andmark had her killed," said Wend. The words were matter of fact, but Mitt could still see the pain Noreth's death had caused Wend and that had driven him to act in concert with Kankredin.

"And Tannoreth?"

Maewen looked sheepish. "Er, that would be me."

"What?" Maewen's father looked stunned again.

"Of course!" Navis looked as though a penny had dropped. "Mitt did mention you had experience of travelling."

"The One and Kankredin sucked me back in time and put me in Noreth's place for the quest for the crown. Together with Mitt, Wend, two singers, real ones, and you."

Now it was Navis' turn to looked stunned. Mitt didn't think he'd ever seen Navis look anything other than self-possessed. "Me?" Then he frowned afresh. "And how is it a Holander like you, or me, would end up in the north? I'm assuming that we were in the north, otherwise Hannart wouldn't have been involved."

"We were. I ended up at Aberath as a Hearthman to the Countess there. You ended up in Adenmouth as a member of Lord Stair's household. I suppose that would be a fourth beginning," said Mitt wryly.

Wend cleared his throat. "Perhaps start with that one."

Mitt nodded. "That is where I started to realise just how hemmed in by the Undying I was, and if you think Hadd is a bad father," he added, "you're not alone there."

Navis' eyebrows raised. "Yours?"

"During the Autumn Festival, on my thirteenth birthday, I tried to kill Earl Hadd," Mitt began. "My father did kill him."

"I can't say I'm surprised to learn that's how my father dies," said Navis slowly. "But I can't see why we would become allies after that. I may not like him, but he is my father, after all."

"In the first instance, convenience. We were going in the same direction, getting away from Harl and Harchard as they fought over the Earldom. Later, we were trying to get away from Keril. Then, I think, we were actually friends." Mitt smiled faintly. "I never did ask why you stuck with me after the crown was found."

"So I become a pragmatist rather than an idealist." Navis frowned with something that looked very much like disappointment.

"An idealistic pragmatist," Mitt corrected. "Particularly once the crown was found. You wanted the best for Dalemark, but you knew when to compromise. When to risk and when to play safe."

Navis' expression suggested he was pleased by that description.

"You recognised me as an adult before I recognised myself that way. You were also one of the only people in court, after the country was finally united and at peace, who'd tell me when I was being an ass. I think, perhaps, because you remembered me as the guttersnipe from Holand's slums – you knew exactly where I'd come from and new any airs or pretention wasn't really me."

"You had integrity," said Maewen. "And you were kind. Lord Stair's wife asked you to look out for Noreth – she was Noreth's aunt – and you did, even after you knew I wasn't really Noreth. Which I think was probably a lot sooner than you ever let on because you're also one of the sharpest men I've known."

Mitt noticed that as Maewen was speaking, Navis seemed to become translucent. As she finished, a shadow briefly flickered into the room, and then both the shadow and Navis were gone.


	12. The Weaver

Cennoreth

Before her eyes, as she wove, Cennoreth saw the mossy green that represented Navis Haddsson trail off. Most people would assume that it meant her shuttle had run out of yarn, but she could tell by feel that there was still plenty of yarn left. As if to check what she could feel, she lifted the shuttle and was unsurprised to realise that the colour had faded to grey.

Navis had gone back to where he belonged.

Cennoreth smiled. She suspected that if she were to wind back what she'd woven, she'd probably find a gap existed in Navis' lifeline that would correspond to this visit to the future.

And now, in the weaving she could see the turquoise of her brother splitting off from Mitt and Maewen in Kernsburgh. Maybe later today, or maybe tomorrow, she'd find out just what had been going on.


	13. Back To The Beginning

Navis

Navis found himself back exactly where he'd been when the whole adventure had begun: at the desk in the library. But if his location was the same, his knowledge had moved on considerably.

Glancing up, he saw the painting of The Adon that hung in the library and immediately saw the likeness between the legendary last king of Dalemark and Mitt. Same nose. Same eyes. Same bony shoulders. Mitt hadn't suffered from the hunch, of course, but the similarity was disconcerting all the same. It provided further credence (had he needed it) to everything he'd seen and heard. It also explained that odd familiarity that he'd noticed the very first time he'd seen Mitt.

And yet, the whole experience had left him back where he started: in the palace in Holand with no immediate future. True, it was nice to know that in twenty years he'd be a key player in making Dalemark whole again – but it was still twenty years away. Just what was he supposed to do between now and then?

At that moment, the door of the library opened and no lesser person than the earl himself entered. The expression Hadd's face was a strange one to Navis' eyes. Simultaneously sheepish and defensive, and Navis wondered what it was about.

"Ah, there you are," said Hadd and Navis had to resist the temptation to glance behind him to see who his father was really addressing in such a friendly tone. "You'll begin as a captain."

Navis blinked at the utter non sequitur. He knew his father would be angry that he couldn't immediately grasp what was meant, but his father's comments made no sense whatsoever. "I will start what as a captain?" 

"Your time in the militia." And for a wonder Hadd didn't actually sound as if he was mentally appending the words "you utter simpleton" to that statement. "You were right – it would be good for you to join and serve, but no son of the earl should be a lowly private. So you will begin as a captain."

Navis' mouth hinged open in surprise.

"Well don't just stand there catching flies, boy! You had better not show me up."

Navis almost laughed at the abrupt return to normal, but he managed to restrain the impulse and nodded instead. "I won't, sir."

"Bah. Major Tarkersson will be waiting for you first thing tomorrow. So say whatever goodbyes you must and be ready for him."

And with that much said, the earl pivoted and stalked from the library. Only once he was sure his father was out of earshot did Navis let out a surprised chuckle. After his experiences of the last couple of days, he wondered if perhaps the earl's change of mind had something to do with The One and His interference in Navis' life.

Perhaps it did and perhaps it didn't.

Either way, the change of heart had given him a purpose now and that wouldn't be bad at all. He would work hard and be the best soldier he could be: the future of Dalemark depended on him getting this right.


	14. Epilogue

Maewen

In the sudden, surprised silence that followed Navis' disappearance, the sound of a gentle moan startled her. Glancing at the others in the sitting room, she realised it was coming from her father.

"Dad? What is it?"

"All those questions I could have asked!"

Maewen had to giggle at that. Despite all the shocks of the last two days, the part her father was regretting was not finding out more history.

Wend chuckled too. "You wouldn't have had the answers you want from that version of Navis Haddsson," he said, "but you might yet get your questions resolved."

"What do you mean?"

For answer, Wend inclined his head in Mitt's direction. "You still have a first hand witness."

Mitt's eyes narrowed into a glare. "Hadn't you better get back to your sister and make sure nothing else has happened?"

"I had, at that," said Wend imperturbably. He bowed to Maewen. "I expect my sister wouldn't object to a visit, when you have a chance." He paused and smiled. "Nor would she object to your father joining you, if he wishes."

"I—we'll bear that in mind," said Maewen, privately thinking that her father meeting Cennoreth was perhaps not a good idea.

With that, Wend departed.

Maewen watched as her father shook his head. "I can safely say that this is the second strangest day in my career."

"Only the second strangest?" said Mitt.

"The day Amil the Great's Tomb exploded is still far stranger." Maewen's father frowned. "You're going to tell me that wasn't an explosion."

"Well, it wasn't a bomb," said Mitt.

Maewen giggled as her father held up a hand. "I want to hear the whole story, but perhaps we can save it for this evening when I can wash it all down with a good brandy." And before Mitt could say yes or no to that request, Maewen's father bustled out of the apartment, presumably to attend to some duty or other.

For a moment Maewen debated calling after him to point out that he was, so far as the rest of the museum staff were concerned, ill in bed. Then she shrugged. Perhaps it would be better for him to get back to his work.

"Well," said Mitt brightly, "that was fun."

"Just wait: dad hasn't thought through all the implications yet," Maewen warned.

"I know – that's what I'm afraid of."

Maewen snorted. "You know what else this means?"

"What?"

"That Navis knew a lot more about you than he ever let on. And me, for that matter."

"That was Navis for you," said Mitt with a shrug. "Never one to reveal all his cards."

"Still," Maewen continued, "I'm almost glad this happened."

"Oh?"

"At least it means you don't have to pretend to be a history student."

Mitt laughed.


End file.
